Ballad For Dead Friends
by Lithoniel Sedai
Summary: The last battle: A series of vignettes of our friends who fought with, died for, and perhaps harder still – survived Harry Potter.
1. 01 The Letter

**Ballad For Dead Friends**

**Harry Potter, names, characters and related indicia are copyright of JK Rowling and Warner Bros ™**

**The title of this fiction, as well as the lyrics it contains, are the property of Dashboard Prophets. (Words: Dye/Music: Dashboard Prophets – Meyer, Bocci, Evanski, Dye). Published by Bent Halo Music/Weird Water Music/Garg Music/Here Comes Treble Music (ASCAP). Property of 1996 Dashboard Prophets.**

**In short, I claim nothing as my own except the plot… and even that is doubtful.**

1. The Letter 

Harry stood by the tower window in the new headmistress's office; his back turned firmly from the, as yet unawakened, portrait of Albus Dumbledore. Three months had passed since the last, crumbling foundations of protection for the wizarding world had been lain to rest. Two months since the last of the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had returned to their homes, Hermione and Ron included. Harry had insisted - best for them to explain the situation to their parents in person, rationally and logically. Harry knew for sure Mrs Weasley would be devastated at the youngest of her sons, and a prefect at that, following in the steps of his elder and more irresponsible brothers and leaving school before completing his final year. Then she would have to contemplate the dangers Ron would be facing, now multiplied tenfold.

Harry gazed out over the now quiet grounds of Hogwarts, at Hagrid's hut where he could see the half-giant's shadow moving through the window, and the lake where the giant squid was all but completely submerged, savoring their beauty, realising that this might well be the last time he would see them in this tranquil state. The last time that his home would be free of the devastation of the war that was now so far upon them, fleeing was no longer an option. And besides, where was there to run? Hogwarts had only been safe so long as Albus Dumbledore had resided within its walls, whilst his strength and protection had kept them safe.

_How are you feeling?_

_Do you feel okay?_

'_Cause I don't._

The rustling of paper startled Harry out of his reverie as the letter he had written to the new head of Hogwarts was placed on his desk.

'And this is your final decision, Potter?'

The usual hard, clipped tones were softer – sadder. There was a subtle hopelessness in them that Harry had seldom heard before. An element that Minerva McGonagall could not afford to reveal to any but himself, lest the school suffer the consequences of a Headmistress lacking in strength.

'Yes, it is.'

"I understand that you feel badly, Potter, we all feel it too. However, Albus would not have wished for you to be making such crucial decisions during a time of grief. Especially when the dangers of what you suggest far outweigh anything you have faced before, and you seek to undertake them without even completing your education. Whilst I do not doubt that you have the ability to defeat the Dark Lord; to attempt to do so without even completing your basic education, let alone vigorous auror training – which has failed to save even the best aurors England has ever seen from harm – is ludicrous to the point of insanity. Look at the Longbottoms, look at Amelia Bones, and look at your own parents for heavens sake! These were people who had completed years and years of intensive training - the cream of the proverbial crop.

'Do not let this silly propaganda about you being the 'chosen one' go to your head. You are but a schoolboy. A schoolboy who has endured more than many of the finest wizards could endure, yes, but nevertheless a schoolboy.'

Harry remained unturned from the window, his eyes staring unseeingly into the Forbidden Forest.

'I may be just a schoolboy, professor, but I _am_ the chosen one, and it was Voldemort who chose me. What Dumbledore may or may not have wanted for me is irrelevant now. He prided himself in seeing the best in people, of the redemption of the wicked. It was this mistaken pride that made him refuse to listen to what many others tried to tell him.

'Oh, he may have been a great man, but in the end that's all he was: a man. A man with weakness, and a man who made mistakes. However, a man in his position cannot afford to make mistakes, and his have cost the Order severely. They are now in more danger than ever from the Death Eaters and we no longer have a spy within their ranks. He taught me more than he thought he had; and whether or not you believe it, I am ready and I am going.'

Minerva McGonagall surveyed the tall raven-haired man who stood by the window, silhouetted in the evening light. For he was a man now, Dumbledore's death had robbed him of the last remnants of the boy who had lingered after the death of Sirius. His tone rang with resolution and he reminded her greatly of another dark-haired young man with whom she had had a similar conversation nearly 18 years before.

She sighed, a sound that Harry gratefully took for reluctant acquiescence. The immense guilt he felt for critisising, to the point of degrading, Dumbledore's last actions was almost more than he could bear. He now felt no more 'Dumbledore's man' than Rufus Scrimgeour; and if, at that moment, he were suddenly to find himself doing battle with a Basilisk once again, he knew that there would be no Fawkes flying in to save him.

'I suppose that you will be once again accompanied by Mr Weasley and Miss Granger?'

Harry nodded, forcing away his thoughts of shame. 'I did try to reason with them, professor, but they are stubborn.'

'A pity. I had been looking forward to instructing the three of you in preparation for your NEWT's. However, if this is the way it must be…'

Harry smiled slightly, 'I'm sure Hermione will feel the loss more keenly than even you.'

Chuckling, the ex-transfiguration professor rose from her chair. 'I shall have to inform the necessary persons of your choice.'

Harry nodded and reluctantly turned from the window.

You may stay here a while longer, if you wish, but then you must return to your dormitory and pack. I am afraid the school board will no longer allow any minors to remain within these walls, regardless of whether or not they still hold student status, and it would be unwise to disobey any of their requests whilst the fate of this school still rests in their hands. Unfortunately you will have to return to your muggle relatives until your seventeenth birthday.'

Harry nodded, and for a moment the two of them stood, each gazing somewhere about the others' ear. Neither wanting the connection of eye contact, which would cement the reality of their conversation. The silence in the room became palpable until the tension no longer bearable by either. Their eyes met, and Harry saw McGonagall's flicker with some untold emotion. She gave him a small, curt nod of her head, though something of a bitter smile seemed to haunt her face. Then, without another word, she turned and left the room closing the door gently behind her.

Harry stood for a long time, gazing out over the grounds. The quidditch pitch, where he had spent some of his happiest hours looked peaceful in the darkening light. He could hear an echo of the crowd screaming cheers and catcalls; Luna's ridiculous hat; Lee Jordan's colourful commentary and a few strains of 'Weasley is our King'.

A flicker from the top of the stands caught the edge of his vision, but Harry's eyes did not dart eagerly to the uppermost seats, as they once had, desperately seeking the shaggy dog who had once sat in the highest row staring back at him with those huge eyes.

Sirius was dead.

Harry swung from the window, blocking out the thoughts, his sudden movement startling many of the portraits decorating the walls of the office. Dumbledore's painting looked as if it were stirring. The oil replica of the great man was shifting in his chair and muttering unintelligibly. He began to stretch, the folds of his robes flowing against the canvas skin and his brushstroke beard began to twitch.

Swiftly Harry moved to the door and slipped out before the fraud – masquerading in costume of paint and canvas – could open his eyes; for it wasn't Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was dead.

_It keeps me reeling;_

_Will I ever be the same?_

_No, I won't_

Slowly, Harry made his way to the Gryffindor common room. The fat lady swung aside for his as he clambered through the hole. The common room was empty as it had never been during the school year. There were no gobstones lying in corners, no half-finished chess games sitting forgotten on tables as the pieces yelled tireless insults at each other for hours upon end. The chairs hadn't been dragged around the room to suit each group of students, chattering to each other before bed. Instead, they were all arranged perfectly around the fire or the small tables as they usually were placed by the house-elves during the holidays; the tidy order never lasting more than a few minutes after the first students entered at the start of a new term. A single fire still burned in one stone fireplace, the only indication that someone still resided within the tower.

As Harry collapsed into a chair he felt a piece of parchment rustling in his pocket. Sighing he reached into his robes and pulled the offending epistle into his lap. It had been sitting there nigh on three months and bore the marks of having being constantly removed and rolled out before being crumpled into an angry fist and shoved unceremoniously back into his pocket. Despite this, the seal still remained unbroken and as Harry traced the imprint of a phoenix feather in the wax he could almost hear the long quavering note of the birds' song as it had sounded when the letter had been delivered. He could still smell the sulphur as the air had burst into flame above his head while he sat forlornly on his bed in the early hours of the morning before Dumbledore's funeral.

The phoenix feather that had appeared with the rolled parchment still sat on his dresser. Harry was considering making it into a quill, though that did not seem to be a fitting end for the feather that accompanied the last correspondence between Harry and his mentor.

Hands trembling Harry broke the seal and carefully unfolded the crushed missive.

**Harry,**

**If this has reached you then, alas, I did not survive our journey to the caves. I am writing this letter, in the probability of this trip resulting in my death, that I might still have a chance to convey some last thoughts to you. Things that I should have said whilst I lived, and that I fully intended on saying, should we have returned successfully, but things that may have seemed slightly melodramatic in lieu of what we were preparing to undertake. And, to be frank Harry things that, should I impart to you before we leave, would have given you an indication that I do not really believe I shall survive. Then you would have taken risks in order to prevent harm befalling me which would have in turn harmed you, and I will not risk our world's hope of surviving Voldemort simply so that you may satisfy any heroic urge you may feel. No matter how necessary you may feel it to be. **

**Remember, that any choice that I made or will make on this trip is my own, that you are not responsible for it and that you could in no way have done anything to prevent it had you wanted to try. **

**Know, Harry, that I have complete faith in you and in your ability to complete the tasks that you have yet you face. **

**Also, Harry, a word of warning, Voldemort does underestimate you, you and I both know this. But he is also shrewd, and will try to bait you at every turn. Whilst your impetuousness can often be to your credit, exercise it with some caution. Remember Sirius. We both made mistakes there; mistakes that we cannot afford to repeat.**

**Ah, I fear time is pressing, and there are a few more letters of valediction that I must compose before you arrive here tonight.**

**I am proud of you. Had I a grandson, I could want no better than you. **

**Please forgive an old man for any offence or grief he may have caused. Everything that I have done was well intentioned, however it has turned out.**

**Farewell Harry Potter**

**Albus Dumbledore**

Harry sat for a moment, the hand holding the note shaking even more pronouncedly. Then, with a howl of pain, he viciously crumpled it and threw in into the fire, falling to his knees, screaming his grief to the room

_It's a cold day in a cold world._


	2. 02 Slughorn's Office

**Ballad For Dead Friends **

**Harry Potter, names, characters and related indicia are copyright of JK Rowling and Warner Bros ™**

**The title of this fiction, as well as the lyrics it contains, are the property of Dashboard Prophets. (Words: Dye/Music: Dashboard Prophets – Meyer, Bocci, Evanski, Dye). Published by Bent Halo Music/Weird Water Music/Garg Music/Here Comes Treble Music (ASCAP). Property of 1996 Dashboard Prophets.**

**In short, I claim nothing as my own except the plot… and even that is doubtful.**

­2. Slughorn's Office

Dark circles around his eyes stood out on Harry's gaunt, white face as he marched through the corridors toward the dungeons. In the year and a half he had been absent from the school, he had longed everyday to awaken and find himself in his dormitory; to have to rush from class to class in the busy halls; to sit in the great hall and enjoy the delicious meals prepared by the house-elves. Just to stand within the walls of the castle, and enjoy the calming feeling of safety he had not felt since leaving. Instead, however, his stomach was churning, and deep lines of worry had etched themselves between his brows and creased around his mouth. His face had aged considerably in the last few months and he looked tired and drawn.

In spite of this haggard appearance, however, he did not seem to lack physical energy as he marched purposefully toward the potion masters' office. A bell rang from somewhere, signalling the end of a lesson and Harry closed his eyes briefly to savour the familiarity of the sound.

Students began to pour out from various classrooms around him, chattering amongst themselves as they made their way to the next class. A couple of the older ones, whom Harry recognised, lifted their hands in greeting as he passed. Harry nodded back, not once breaking his stride as the crowd parted before him. Some conversations died as he passed and whispers broke out behind him as he left stunned students in his wake.

Of course, thought Harry, the Daily Prophet would be reporting his every move now he was hunting Death Eaters, and especially since Ron… Harry began lengthening his stride, his black cloak billowing out behind him in what must have been a look reminiscent of Snape. At the thought of Snape, Harry bit back an oath, his face darkening.

_I really wish I could have saved you_

_Then who would have saved me from myself?_

Dennis Creevy who had seen Harry and was running up to him, with an appearance of eager excitement, stopped in his tracks at the vicious look on Harry's face, turned on his heel and fled. The giggling from various groups of girls suddenly hushed as he turned to glance at them and they too made a speedy exit. Finding himself alone in the corridor Harry was forcibly reminded of the many other times when he had been in similar situations – the whispers, the giggles, the corridors suddenly emptying when he had appeared. He had been, on those many occasions throughout the years, believed to be the heir of Slytherin, insane and a murderer. Well, at least he had fulfilled one of Rita Skeeters descriptions of him. He felt no remorse for the death of Bellatrix Lestrange.

_Right now, well I could use a stiff drink_

_To kill the pain that's deep inside my bones_

Harry' feet slowed automatically as he reached his destination.

'Slughorn!' His voice rang out dangerously, echoing around the dungeons.

'Wha-? Who's that?' The walrus moustache was even larger than Harry remembered, slightly overshadowing the corpulent body and the bald head gleaming iridescently in the light of the torches.

'You've been avoiding me, Slughorn.'

'Harry, m'boy, my dear boy, is that you? Slughorn blinked owlishly at the stern form towering over his own squat figure.

'Who else would it be, Slughorn?' Harry's patience was wavering. 'Why have you been avoiding me?'

"Avoiding, dear boy? There is no question of avoi – it's – that is, I've just been so busy recently, all these students you know. And I'm not as young as once was.'

'Of course, that must account for five unanswered owls sent to you while a former student of yours, Ronald Weasley, lies dying in a bed in St Mungo's. Perhaps you are indeed growing old and your mind is becoming infirm. If this is the case, you might be better off retiring. I seem to remember that you were none to enthusiastic to take up this position in the first place, and it was only Dumbledore's presence which convinced you, and he has long been absent from the walls.'

Slughorn began spluttering incoherently.

'As you know, I carry a lot of weight with the headmistress and the school board at the moment, so if you would like me to put in a request on your behalf I would be only too happy to do so. Why don't I go see them now? That is, unless you have something here for me.'

'Idle threats, Harry? Your mother would not have resorted to that in her day.'

'Idle threats?' Harry echoed, 'Oh no, those were promises, Slughorn. And promises should always be kept, don't you agree?'

Slughorn gaped at Harry, his mouth moving noiselessly.

'Enough of this, Slughorn. Where is the book?'

'Book, my boy?' The potions professor seemed to have regained his equilibrium. 'What book would that be?'

'I'm losing patience.' Harry raised his wand ever so slightly and the room began to shake. Bottles rattled on their shelves and cupboard doors swung open.

'Harry,' Slughorn protested. 'You must understand, that book contains the most ingenious approaches to potions to which I have ever been privy. It holds, within it's covers, the workings of the most complex and brilliant mind – I cannot simply give it… augh!'

He broke off with a sharp gasp as the cupboard directly behind him exploded, showering the room with splinters, and bottles began falling from the shelves, their contents spilling onto the floor. Strangely coloured fumes began rising where the ingredients had run into each other in the cracks of the stone floor.

'It is,' Harry said quietly, 'the works of a murdering traitor, and may hold Ron's cure.' You _will _give it to me, even if I have to destroy this entire office before you do so.'

Flicking his wand, Harry began levitating cauldrons around the room, deliberately slopping their contents over the floor. Slughorn watched aghast as hundreds of galleons worth of rare and experimental potions began to form puddles on the stones.

'Alright! Alright!' In a panicked voice Slughorn almost screamed his agreement as a batch of Felix Felicis began to tilt precariously to one side.

Muttering under his breath, Slughorn moved across the wreckage of his office and unlocked the door to his private storeroom. Harry followed him in, in no mood for anymore delays. Looking round furtively, Slughorn tapped the air low to the ground in the back corner and a small wooden cabinet flickered into sight. Harry caught a brief glance at a series of ancient lettering and runes worked into the door before it was hidden from view by Slughorn's bulk as he rummaged through it.

'Ahhh,' Harry heard the regretful sigh as Slughorn laid his hands on a tattered copy of Advanced Potion Making by Libatius Borage. Without warning it suddenly soared from Slughorn's grasp, before he even had time to close the cabinet door. By the time he had done so and clambered to his feet he could already hear Harry's footsteps retreating and the office door slamming behind him. Bowing his head in defeat, Slughorn listened, as the footsteps grew fainter and fainter, until all he could hear was the distant chatter of students waiting for him in the potions room.


	3. 03 Dreaming

**Ballad For Dead Friends **

**Harry Potter, names, characters and related indicia are copyright of JK Rowling and Warner Bros ™**

**The title of this fiction, as well as the lyrics it contains, are the property of Dashboard Prophets. (Words: Dye/Music: Dashboard Prophets – Meyer, Bocci, Evanski, Dye). Published by Bent Halo Music/Weird Water Music/Garg Music/Here Comes Treble Music (ASCAP). Property of 1996 Dashboard Prophets.**

**In short, I claim nothing as my own except the plot… and even that is doubtful.**

3. Dreaming

_Have you been dreaming?_

The Great Hall had been, as was traditional, decorated elaborately for the Christmas festivities. Lights glowed and flickered eerily as Harry stood a little way to the side of he dance floor, wand in hand, eyes scanning the crowd for anything that could possibly be construed as Death Eater activity. So far there had been no sign of trouble. Many students and teachers were standing around the drinks table, chatting to each other whilst consuming copious amounts of mulled wine and Butterbeer – the apparent joy of a peaceful Christmas breaking down the usual barriers constraining their interaction.

Harry's eyes flitted to the dance floor where the remainder of the faculty and children were dancing – and odd, synchronised, predatory dance. In one corner a lone couple waltzed in time with the music. Remus and Sirius, paws clasped and noses held aloft, barked and whined, singing along with the music, to which they were rotating around and around in a tight circle, tails wagging gently from side to side.

Sirius let out a series of short barks and yaps of greeting as they passed Harry, who stopped dead in his tracks, and began pushing his way through the throng of people toward the edge of the dance floor. Sweating slightly, he stumbled into the corner where he had last seen the pair, to find the space empty. Looking around wildly, Harry saw the tip of a tail disappearing back into the crowd in the direction from which he'd come. Without hesitation he made his way back onto the dance floor, determined not to lose sight of them.

As his feet touched the floor, the tempo of the music increased and the dancers began spinning circles around the dance floor. Harry desperately pushed them aside, forcing his way deeper into the crowd. A particularly energetic dancer knocked his feet from under him and he came crashing to the ground, wand flung from his grasp and his glasses knocked askew. Disoriented, and vision blurred, Harry threw his arms out blindly in an attempt to get back to his feet. The swirling of dress robes whirled around and around him until all he could see was a spiralling blur of colour. As he tried to scramble to his feet and fight the growing feeling of suffocation gyrating bodies bumped and jostled him, repeatedly preventing him from regaining his balance. His glasses slipped off his nose and Harry caught them a split second before they hit the ground to be crushed underfoot.

Encouraged by having his glasses settled once again firmly on his nose, he grabbed onto the closest swirling mass of colour and used it to propel himself back up and onto his feet. As he dusted off his robes, resuming his perusal of the celebration, the deliberate movement of a wand caught his eye and he glanced toward its source. Standing at the head-table was Snape, appearing to be lost to the merriment as he practised wand movements. A look of intense concentration distorted his features as he slashed at Draco Malfoy, whose chest was repeatedly lacerating with each flick. Malfoy did not seem to mind – or, indeed, notice – that he was bleeding profusely from his chest, his silver dress robes dripping freely and stained scarlet. He continued chatting animatedly to Blaise Zabini, whilst Pansy Parkinson floated above him looking, to Harry's eyes, a pink, over-inflated balloon as she stroked Draco's hair back from his face, whispering in his ear. He slapped her away, absentmindedly, as if she were a fly, and appeared only vaguely aware of anything happening as she proceeded to sprout wings. A few students laughed and pointed as her eyes swelled enormously and filled with tears, but most did not appear to notice anything as she flew away sobbing, in a manner not unlike that of Moaning Myrtle.

Over to the side of the room Dumbledore danced with Cedric Diggory in a kind of reverse tango, whilst McGonagall twirled in pirouettes around them in a tartan tutu. Snakes slipped in and around their feet, cursing mudbloods in sibilant whispers; and Hermione, dressed in a tea-towel and tea-cosy watched Dobby, Krum and Ron dance to ring-a-rosy in the middle of the floor.

The lights suddenly dimmed and several people screamed as the hall was pitched into darkness. Wand miraculously returned to his hand, Harry muttered under his breath and the lights came back on.

His relief was momentary.

Finding his shoes damp, Harry glanced toward the floor and retched as blood began seeping up through the cracks in the stones. He ran forward, trying to calm the crowd of frightened children, but the room began to spin. Without warning, he was immobilised, and could only watch in despair as Sirius re-appeared in front of him, now locked in fierce combat with Bellatrix Lestrange. Knowing what was about to happen – locked within the loop, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to look away – Harry was forced to watch helplessly as Sirius once again was struck with the surge of red light.

Heart breaking, Harry struggled and struggled to move; if only this time he could get there, he could make it, he could catch Sirius before he fell through the curtain. In slow motion he watched again as Sirius fell. Every detail the same, his astonished face still alight with the laughter Harry had seldom seen in the last months of his life. The veil, once again, lifted from the floor as if caught in a gale and, once again, came to rest still rippling in the breeze that disturbed nothing else.

Too late again.

Straining so hard he thought he might haemorrhage, Harry began to break through the spell. Non-verbal incantations flowed through his mind as he slowly began to move his head, eyes watering from exertion as they automatically sought Dumbledore. He was still dancing with the Hufflepuff quidditch captain, apparently unconcerned, despite the fact that one of his hands had mysteriously blackened and was smoking slightly. He was watching as Snape continued to cut at Malfoy, occasionally sending a random unforgivable curse into the crowd of students, with a benevolent smile on his lined face.

Turning, Dumbledore looked straight into Harry's eyes, 'You must remember, Harry, I trust Professor Snape. He is the key. He is the truth. Above all, he is my friend.'

Harry wrenched free of the remnants of the curse, ignoring the sudden movement behind Dumbledore, his mouth already open in protest, 'But, sir!'

A flash of green light lit the room without warning and Cedric Diggory was lying spread-eagled at Dumbledore's feet on the grave of Peter Pettigrew. Harry instinctively raised his wand as his eyes adjusted to the sudden dark of the moonless night, fighting the bile that was rising in his throat. He tore his eyes from the still form of the handsome prefect to look for Snape, who was now two-stepping with Dumbledore over and around the graves.

Harry furiously starting toward them found himself being held back and, whirling around, found Draco Malfoy, sobbing bitterly as he continued to tug on the back of Harry's broom. His face smoothly melted into Snape's who chuckled maliciously, 'Remember, Mr Potter, I know your every thought, not matter how hard you try. Subtlety is incomprehensible to you.'

There was another flash of green and Dumbledore was tumbling over the battlements of Hogwarts. With a scream of fury Harry tore himself from, the again sobbing, Malfoy; but then Ron was there, his eyes glowing red as he snatched the fake horcrux from around Harry's neck.

Harry screamed, his ears were filled with a rushing sound, the room was spinning again, tables and chairs flying, a high wind began tearing curtains and drapes, students began revolving around him as if caught in a whirlwind, he was falling into darkness, something stuck him across the face and he looked up…

The light was streaming in through the drawing room window and he shook his head slightly before rising stiffly from his chair, ignoring the books and papers that fell from his lap, and moving away from Ron and Hermione's concerned gazes.

_I don't dream at all._

_I have nightmares._


End file.
